


Disconnect

by mrhiddles



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dark Character, M/M, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhiddles/pseuds/mrhiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Something seemingly good but is really bad, underneath.</p><p>Arthur's thoughts are a cycle and Eames knows not to break them, merely intersperse them with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disconnect

It’s kind of like how the inhale of cigarette smoke is potent and saturated, seeping and burning your throat before you’ve even tasted the filter. It’s something like fire, glinting and sparking in dark corners and rotted alleyways. Something to crumble in on itself once you realize fire is a fragile thing.

Arthur deals in severe measurements of faults.

Eames likes to play both sides, see which turns out best to fall out on.

They work well together. They argue incessantly and Eames has had the end of Arthur’s Glock 17 leveled with his head twice and once he had an imprint of the barrel digging into the flesh of his neck; a silence that dragged too long. Too tense.

But they work well together. When they’re in the field, things get done quick and right, often violent, but it works. It works very well.

But then they come up for air.

It’s Eames first, usually. Eames with the bravado to break their silences.

Eames often tells Arthur to loosen up, tug on his tie a little, all with a smile on his face. Laughs off the imprint on his neck. Laughs off the way Arthur glares at him, neck swiveling precise and deliberate as he eyes his next task. His next method of result.

He knows Arthur hates his smirk.

\--

Arthur likes to shove his cock down Eames’ throat and watch the way spit dribbles down the side of his lips, down his jaw. The Brit has no gag reflex and he’s glad for it. He makes these little _ahs_ , these little _oohs_ , all while taking Arthur deeper, hands firmly grasping his ass, wanting more. Forcing Arthur deeper inside his mouth, his throat.

Arthur praises him.

Arthur dreams of shooting marks and being shot and there’s often far too much red in his dreams.

Eames is there too, sometimes.

Eames often wears a red tie.

\--

It’s a Friday and they’re lunching together in Germany. In three hours, their mark will show his face at Hotel Adlon, flanked by two guards with Berettas strapped to their ribs.

Eames will follow them in and Arthur will wait just outside, around the back. This job asks for more than just sharing a dream, more than stealing secrets.

Sometimes their military background comes into play and they have to take marks out on the no-level, in reality.

Eames sips at his beer, eyeing Arthur across from him critically. He blinks and Arthur swallows his food.

“Sun’ll be up for a few more hours, yeah?”

“Mm,” Arthur hums.

Four hours later and Eames’ tie is yellow, spattered red.

Arthur’s heart is racing, fingers aching where they hold his Glock tight.

Eames makes the call. An unmarked black car pulls up, three suits shuffling out to gather the body and take it to God knows where.

Arthur stands and stares up at the sky, blinking lazily.

Eames stands beside him.

Arthur thinks an hour passes before he feels Eames’ hand press gentle along his back.

\--

That night Eames pushes into him slow, stretching Arthur open how he likes. Just on the side of pain so that he feels it.

Eames always takes his time, and sometimes it’s infuriating to Arthur. He tries to thrust back, writhe his hips and ride Eames from below but not tonight, no. Tonight Eames has him pinned and ruts into his so slowly it has Arthur leaking into the sheets.

Eames is whispering nonsense into his hairline, the base of his neck. His lips ghost over Arthur’s skin and Arthur can’t understand him. He wants more, he wants Eames to go faster, to tear him open, make him sweat, make him _hurt_ —but nothing changes.

Eames flattens himself on top of Arthur, allowing only enough relief so Arthur can breathe. He hardly pulls out, only to bury himself in Arthur again and again. His arms come around to hook underneath Arthur’s arms, embracing him, feeling his heart thud hard and fast where it’s caged in his chest.

Eames is letting go these small, desperate little sounds and Arthur’s never heard them outside of shoving his prick deep past his lips.

“Arthur, my assiduous Arthur—” he says. It makes Arthur’s breath catch. He chokes and the quick inhale he’s forced to take makes his gut roll, makes his cock twitch. He tries desperately to rut into the mattress but Eames doesn’t allow it.

An arm comes up, a hand wrapping gentle but firm around Arthur’s neck. It’s like a threat and it has Arthur arching back into Eames. Arthur wants to feel all of him pressed to his back.

Eames makes a wounded sound and rolls them so that Arthur is suddenly able to breathe, hugged tight to Eames chest though he is. His leg automatically drapes back over where Eames thigh is moving slowly behind his. His arm comes up to grip hard along Eames’ skull. His fingers twist into short, ruffled hair and Eames kisses his neck.

Eames lowers his hand to wrap around Arthur’s cock and strokes him in slow, tight pulls. It’s still not enough.

Arthur is breathless, aching, he cranes his neck to meet Eames’ sight and Eames is already there to meet him. He surprises Arthur by kissing him, and that’s new. They’ve never done that before.

Eames sucks on Arthur’s tongue just as he comes and it’s Arthur who’s making the little _ahs_ and _oohs_.

\--

Three in the morning and Arthur is still awake, Eames curled into his side.

His gun is on the nightstand.

The bedsheets are red.

Eames sleeps easy beside him, arm wrapped loose around Arthur’s middle, and he wonders how.

How?


End file.
